The Chicago Shady Dealer

The Chicago Shady Dealer

The Only Intentional Humor Publication of the University of Chicago

Mac Demarco Fan Explains, "Yeah, but My Frat Is Just Like the Anti-Frat"

by Antonia Salisbury

“So, I’m pledging now.” No one said anything, but Zeke could tell everyone at the table thought that he had too many thrifted tees to rush. His defense against their silence was timid at first: “Have you ever been in a sea full of people wearing Patagonias and felt so ready to camp but also dominate in a round of pong?” But soon, Zeke gained confidence in his decision and ability to talk loudly: “I wasn’t going to at first, but then I met all the brothers and it’s just a really chill group of guys and I don’t see why everyone is so close-minded.”

Impassioned, Zeke stood on his house table in North. “Friends, Romans, midwest fuccbois, what I’m saying is that we can have it all. We can listen to Salad Days and wear Sperrys. Hit the grav bong and apply to be Dougan Scholars at Booth. Guys, we can even be politically ambiguous yet aggressive in a left-wing way! The world is our pregame, so let’s make the most of it. Who’s with me? Alright, let’s get a polaroid of this.” In celebration -- while still standing on the table -- Zeke duct-taped a Four Loko to each of his hands and exclaimed, “Cheers to a new era that isn’t just about binge drinking, it’s also about cool music and cool people!”

As Zeke looked in the mirror, he knew that no one could tell him that his frat wasn’t the least fratty frat at UChicago. Hell, in the world! Haha. He chuckled at the complexity of his personality as he put his Doc Films cap on backwards. “What a crazy time it is to be alive. I guess I’m like the guy who just changed the entire game or something. The universe is so big and I am so small. I am a swole, down-to-earth speck of dust adrift in a sea of uncertainty, but even I can make a difference.”

That night, Zeke called his Mom and asked her to forward his The Economist subscription to Roh Tau Psi. After completing a lifetime’s worth of samaritan-ship in only a few minutes, Zeke went to bed. As he tucked himself in, letting Pitchfork’s Pepperoni Playboy and a tepid Coors lull him to sleep, he glanced at his white Reboks strewn with an elegant carelessness on the floor and thought, "man, it feels good to be the good guy."